


i'll bite my thumb at thee

by evocates



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-30
Updated: 2013-05-30
Packaged: 2017-12-13 10:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/823133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evocates/pseuds/evocates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the fair city of Verona, two warring families lived: the Montagues and the Capulets. The story of the boy of Montague and the girl of Capulet has been told many, many times. This, however, is not their story. This is the story of their friends; once called Mercutio and Tybalt, they are now named Viggo and Sean.</p><p>(Rather than R&J, we have M&T. Except it's V&S. Go with it.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Attempt at period-appropriate language, letter format, lack of explicit sex, major character death right in the beginning.
> 
>  **Notes:** Plot from _Romeo and Juliet_ , style and form from Goethe’s _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ , a lot of references to Greek mythology, and inspired by [the Hungarian version](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ikESnkpQBR8) of the R&J musical. This fic is subtitled: ‘The author is a nerd and it really shows.’
> 
> Pictures:  
> [Orlando Montague and Miranda Capulet](http://i.imgur.com/ROoxGwg.jpg)  
> [Sean Bean, nephew to Lady Capulet](http://i.imgur.com/gUG6srd.jpg)  
> [Viggo Mortensen, friend of Orlando and Dominic Montague, kinsman of the Prince of Verona](http://i.imgur.com/K13xCBl.jpg)

_Two households, both alike in dignity_  
 _In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,_  
 _From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,_  
 _Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean._  
 _From forth the long branches of hating foes,_  
 _A pair of star-crossed lovers take their life;_  
 _Whose misadventured piteous overthrows_  
 _Doth with their death bury their city’s strife._  


**Part I**

The streets of fair Verona were in an uproar. It was but mid-morning, yet the air was filled with the baying for the blood of young Orlando, Lord and Lady Montague’s only son. Rumours abound that he had despoiled beautiful Miranda of the brown eyes, the only daughter of the Capulets. Leading the charge, growling like a guard-hound himself as he unsheathed his sword, was Sean, Lady Capulet’s nephew. Raw steel glinted jewel-bright; merchants shut their doors and mothers brought their children back home, for fear and rage was thick as miasma in the clear air.

There would be blood split on this day, whispered the citizens of the city. The Prince had laid down a decree—any member of the Capulet or Montague families who started a fight would be put to death. Even if they do not kill each other—and that was doubtful—none thought that the Prince would rescind his order. Though the Prince was kind, he had long been at the limits of his patience.

“Draw your sword, Orlando!” Sean cried. “Fight me if you have any honour left in you!”

“I don’t wish to fight you,” Orlando replied frantically, but he was ignored as his friend, Viggo of the Prince’s own household, pushed him aside.

“How rich are your words!” Viggo mocked. “Yet one must ponder: what does a merchant’s son know of honour?” 

“Stand aside, friend of Montague,” the epithet turned into an insult of the highest measure from Sean’s tongue. “I have no quarrel with you.”

“Any quarrel you have with a friend of mine is a quarrel you have with me,” spat Viggo in rejoinder. “Do you only seek Orlando as a foe for you know his swordwork cannot match yours? Coward!”

Sean narrowed his eyes, sword slicing through the air. “ _Stand aside_ ,” he growled.

“I will pierce your heart and carve my name in it, so to take it for my own,” Viggo drawled, and his mad grin was fearsome to see. “I will tear your mouth to pieces, so I will never hear poison spill from your lips again. Come now, Sean. Raise your sword and fight me instead!”

“A scion of the Prince’s house you might be, but you speak like a worm. And I will swallow you whole and spit you out!” Sean roared, taking three steps forward until he was nose-to-nose with Viggo. His voice shook through the air. Beside the two enemies, Orlando stared down at his hands, wondering if he could pry them apart by sheer strength.

“Enough! Enough, please, stop fighting!” he yelled.

Sean turned towards him, and Orlando shivered at the sheer rage he saw in those green eyes. He took a step forward, but Viggo was already darting forward, grabbing Orlando by the wrist, pulling him aside.

“There is no backing down from this,” his friend hissed, and the wild light in his eyes twisted the air in Orlando’s throat. “He means to kill this morn, Orlando; make no mistake of that.”

“I cannot kill him,” Orlando whispered. Was this the consequence of his marriage to Miranda? Was this what he wrought? How could such hatred and such anger be born of love? “He is my love’s cousin, and thus he is my cousin as well.”

“A merchant’s son he is, a King of Cats with claws that will only scratch but not kill,” Viggo said, and Orlando realised, with a sinking heart, that those words were meant as reassurance. Madness, all madness this was. How could they not see the love that he shared with Miranda? How could their hatred not fade immediately?

“Viggo,” he tried to say, but it was too late. Viggo was already pushing away from him, drawing his sword. The rasp of metal on metal was like Death himself sharpening his scythe, and Orlando stumbled back—just in time for relative safety as Viggo and Sean’s swords met.

“If ‘tis a duel with me you seek, Viggo, then ‘tis a duel you will have,” Sean barked.

“Nay, this is no duel! A merchant’s son has no place in duels,” Viggo replied, his sword pressing hard against Sean’s, trying to drive him back. “’Tis but a brawl, Sean, a brawl little better than those had by drunkards in a tavern!”

They flew apart, swords sliding against each other. Orlando watched as their gazes held for a long, breathless moment before both tossed away their swords. Viggo shrugged off his heavy coat, leaving himself dressed only in his white shirt, while Sean only drew his sleeves up to reveal tanned wrists. Out of the corner of his eyes, Orlando noticed the Prince’s entourage, immediately recognising both his and Miranda’s parents. He swallowed past the heavy weight in his throat.

“If you continue fighting, you will be put to death.”

“Aye,” Sean said, and in his rage his polished accent slipped away, revealing the true way he spoke. “Aye, and it will be a sweet death.”

Orlando knew not the meaning of those words, but he did not have the time to ponder them. Viggo and Sean dove at each other again, two palms slapping together. Their eyes were fixed on each other, their teeth bared like lions clashing together in the wide open plains of Africa. Sean pushed forward, and Orlando saw, suddenly, the glint of metal in his hand.

“No!” His body was moving before his mind could understand.

There was a blade underneath his arm. He could feel its chill. He could feel sick heat. 

“Move, Montague,” Sean growled. Orlando turned to him, fierce words on the tip of his tongue, but the look in Sean’s eyes silenced him. The sight would haunt him for decades to come: eyes like green glass staring past Orlando, filled with emotions he could never find the words to describe.

“Get away from us, Orlando,” Viggo said. Orlando looked at him, and he withdrew his arm, stumbling away blindly, for all he could see was Sean’s eyes branded at the back of his eyelids and the red, red blood that speckled Viggo’s lips.

“Viggo,” Sean whispered.

“Sean.” Viggo tipped his head, and somehow, the smile on his face was both grotesque and beautiful. “You made me a promise, once.”

“Aye,” Sean said. He took his other hand—the one not wrapped around the knife driven into Viggo’s ribs—and curled it behind Viggo’s neck. “Aye, that I did.”

“Are you keeping it?”

“I won’t be staying like this if I’m not.”

Viggo chuckled. “I don’t think I can stand up any longer,” he said. Though his voice was a quiet whisper, all those on the street heard it. The sight of blood seemed to have killed all other noise.

Orlando glanced upwards to the skies. Strange, he expected to see the carrions circling.

“Alright,” Sean whispered. He laid his head on Viggo’s shoulder, and slowly he brought them both down to their knees, still pressed together. Sean sighed, and he let go of the knife. Viggo’s fingers were stained red by his own blood, and he sank against Sean as he pulled out the blade. He coughed hard, staining Sean’s tunic, but Sean seemed not to notice. His eyes were fixed onto Viggo’s, and he nodded again.

The knife glinted in the light as Viggo raised his arm. _No_ , Orlando thought. _No, no, it could not be_. He darted forward, but he had only taken a single step before Viggo drove the knife into Sean’s back in front of the crowd’s frozen, horrified eyes. Sean did nothing to stop him. No, he seemed to welcome the blade, exhaling deeply, a heavy breath that seemed to be dragged out of his lungs and ridded his chest of all air.

Viggo pulled the dagger out, and let it drop to the ground.

“ _Oh dear Lord_ ,” Orlando heard someone whimper, but he could not recognise the voice. He did not even know if it was his own.

“A plague on both your houses,” Viggo whispered. He raised his head, his hand buried into Sean’s hair, and he shouted those words: “A plague on both your houses!”

A cough wrecked his body, and Sean looked up. His hand traced the edge of Viggo’s jaw before he turned his head, glancing at Orlando for the briefest moment before he turned to stare at the Prince and the heads of the houses Montague and Capulet.

But Orlando’s eyes were drawn back to the two in the centre of this circle the crowd had made, as if they were iron and he was a lodestone. Viggo’s hands streaked red on Sean’s cheeks, and he tilted his head. Their breaths ghosted against each other. Sean coughed, shook, but he leaned forward. They kissed with iron in their breaths, drawn into their lungs by each other’s hands.

Orlando did not understand. This had begun in a manner that made him afraid, but still he _understood._ The hatred between Viggo and Sean was nigh legendary, for it had begun in childhood and followed them as they grew into men. Viggo, friend of Montague; Sean, nephew of Capulet; and all knew the hatred that lay between the two great houses.

But this, this was alien to him. Viggo and Sean were joined in the both perverse way, stabbed by the same knife, their shared blood staining the metal, mixed together until one did not know which drop belonged to one of Capulet’s house, and which belonged to Montague’s friend. They were joined by their lips, and it was so different from the sweet and gentle love he shared with Miranda that he could only stare, uncomprehending.

“Your hatred calls for sacrifice. It calls for blood,” Sean cried. He coughed hard, and it was Viggo’s hand that wiped the blood away. “Look at what your hatred has wrought. Let this blood wash away your hatred.”

“Orlando,” Viggo breathed. “Orlando and Miranda. They love without having to hate. They love without fear.” Sean made a sound against his shoulder, a mangled sob, and Viggo’s hand curled against his shoulder. He was so pale, his skin turned white and thin like paper, and Orlando knew he no longer had the strength to embrace. His heart clenched— even as he was dying, Viggo still attempted to have care of him.

What could Orlando give in return to such devotion? There was no way of stopping their deaths now. How could the meagre efforts Orlando made be enough?

“Let them love, please,” Viggo was obviously forcing the words out. “Let them live.”

“Let this be enough blood for your hatred’s price,” Sean whispered.

They looked at each other again. Sean exhaled, blood bubbling on his lip, and he shifted slightly. Slowly, he placed Viggo on the ground, his hand splaying across the wound on his chest before he lay down beside him. Viggo turned his head, his lips grazing Sean’s forehead. The scene was sweet, and it was grotesque, and Orlando choked back a sob as he watched their eyes close. He tore his gaze from them, turning instead to the crowd—Montagues, Capulets, and the Prince himself—and he saw in their eyes the same horror and incomprehension he felt filling his heart.

None could understand this scene where hatred and love tied so closely together that they refused to be sundered. The hands that pierced each other were the same that tangled together down on top of Viggo’s still chest. Orlando didn’t understand.

He could only hope that Verona herself heard Viggo and Sean’s last plea; that it would be obeyed.

***

Barely three days had passed since Sean and Viggo’s death; the bodies of the two whose death had so rocked the fair city of Verona were not yet interred to the ground. Orlando had not had felt time’s passing; no, for three days his attention was fully captured by the pile of letters, untouched except for the black ribbon tied over them to keep them together, that laid now in front of him on the table of his sitting room. Reaching out a hand, Orlando’s fingertips brushed the top of the pile, then the bottom, before he drew himself back and heaved a deep sigh.

There was a knock on the door. Orlando did not raise his head, merely his voice: “No one is allowed to come in but for my wife!”

“Then you have given me permission,” sweet, dulcet tones answered. Orlando stood immediately, and as Miranda stepped into the room, he took her immediately into his arms, pressing a kiss on her lips.

“I thought your parents will keep you away from me forever,” he said, heart lightening at the sight of her.

“They would have me hidden in my rooms until they finished negotiating my dowry with the Lady Montague,” Miranda said, and her cheeks dimpled as she smiled. “But Orlando, you have forgotten: you have scaled my balcony so many times. How can I have not learned to use that same trick?”

Orlando laughed. Day by day he learned more of his love, and with each piece of knowledge she gifted him he felt his passion deepen. His fingertips brushed her cheek, and he noticed for the first time the shadows beneath her eyes. “What troubles you?” he asked.

“You have a sharp eye, Orlando; ‘tis true,” Miranda sighed. “I am afraid I come here to relieve myself of a sin I have done.”

“You can commit no sin in my eyes,” Orlando declared, yet his love did not smile.

“’Twas not for your sake that I first left my rooms,” she said. She pulled away from him, walking towards the settee and sitting down heavily. “I went to my cousin’s.” She lifted her eyes, and they were troubled. “’Tis a sin, is it not, to desecrate the belongings of the dead? I searched for his journal, for I know he kept one.”

Orlando’s heart swelled with love. He fell to his knees in front of Miranda, taking her white, small hands and pressing rapid kisses on the knuckles. “Oh, _Miranda_ ,” he breathed, barely able to keep himself from chuckle. “I am just as guilty as you are.” He turned, eyes falling, as they had for the past three days, on the pile of letters on the wooden table. “These letters are not mine. They belong to my friend. I know, that as the Prince’s kinsman, his letters now belong to the prince, but…”

“You are as curious as I am!” cried Miranda. “I wish to know… I _need_ to know so badly…” She bit her lip, turning away.

“I thought for three days but I have found no answer,” Orlando said.

Viggo and Sean’s names hovered in the air, thick as miasma yet remaining unsaid, and Orlando knew not why. Surely their names were familiar things, easy on the tongue. Yet Orlando could no longer conjure Viggo’s smiling face. He thought only of the harshness of Viggo’s last plea, the blood that soaked his shirt and coloured his teeth a sickening red. He shook his head hard, but the images had been carved to the back of his eyelids, refusing to be dislodged.

“Perhaps the Prince and the Lady Capulet will wish to know as well,” Orlando asked, and he knew not if the question was for Miranda or himself. “We should, should we not, attempt to find out what we can?”

“There was only ash and blackened leather in the grate,” Miranda said, her voice pulling Orlando back to the present, away from cold ghosts to the warmth of her skin. “There is no sign of Sean’s journal. Even his quills were burnt.”

Had Sean known he would die that day, while the sun was high in the skies and the air was sweet with the scent of spring? Orlando took a breath, and though he knew the metal on his tongue was but pure imagination, he shuddered. Miranda looked at him, and her small hands cupped his face as she pressed a soft kiss on his forehead.

Then he reached out and pulled the ribbon’s knot free. His touch upon the last letter of the pile was reverent. Like a ritual he opened the envelope (it was without a seal, and Orlando felt his guilt lift from him a little— for surely Viggo wished for these letters to be read if he did not seal them?) and drew out the thick, heavy paper. Viggo’s writing was clear and dark upon bleached white, and Orlando stood, unfolding the letter and placing it on the table.

He glanced at Miranda, nodding without knowing why, and their eyes turned to read.

***

_March 19_

There, it has been done. 

I have burnt the last of my letters to you, my friend, and watched with satisfaction as black words on paper turned to ash. Yet no longer had I tossed the last letter into the fire had I found myself at my desk once more, quill at ready with words dedicated to you. It is a difficult habit to break, writing to you; indeed it is a chore I find myself having no passion for. No, you exist in my mind, the eternal recipient of my letters. I write to you as how a child speaks to a friend whom only he can see. For you do not exist; you are Orlando, yet you are not, for you are the Orlando of my mind, far wiser and dispassionate than his real counterpart. 

Forgive this beginning. I seem to have become maudlin now that my thirtieth birthday has passed me by. Great men have accomplished much by this age, yet I remain only Viggo, known only by his relation to Verona's Prince. What has been left for men for these latter-day times to accomplish? I do not know the answer. I know what you will say if you are here before me: love, great love, one that consumes the soul and lets there be meaning to life found in the sparkling, bright eyes of a sweet maiden. Ah, but I have met no such great passion, and I believe love is your domain, not mine.

Spring has come upon us. I stride out of the Prince's estate (never mine, perhaps one might say only not yet but I cannot believe them) and is met with the scents of new flowers in bloom. I shall bring you here this evening so you might rejoice in the splendour of the colours of flowers both wild and garden-kept as they are lit by the sunset. Surely you cannot deny that such a beauty exceeds your beloved Cate's? She is hoarfrosted, my friend, if only to your affections.

This morn my feet had taken me to the gardens, and I realised a cruel reality of the world: that there are no gardens without worms. (At last! I reach the motive of this letter.) The creatures of the Capulet have crept out of hiding as well, and their garish looks always do ruin the beauty of nature. They were led by the merchant’s son. Sean, I was told repeatedly his name was, yet I could only look at him and see a man unfairly raised by his aunt’s marriage to old Capulet to an aristocratic class. Did it not show how unworthy the Capulets were, that they had allowed themselves to mingle with those who were surely lower than they were?

I must break here for an interlude: I hold no ill will towards merchants or peasants. Indeed, the hard work of those who labour such that all of us might consume their efforts are well-appreciated in my heart. Perhaps I look for all excuses for my distaste towards Sean; after such long years, the reason that came most strongly to mind—that his features were simply unpleasing to my eyes—seems fragile and empty. I have grown far too used to hate, my friend, and too often have I wished that I am like you; you who is the sole son of the Montague house but who looked upon the Capulets with kind eyes unless provoked. Ah, I might disparage and tease you for your great passion and innocence, Orlando, but I hope to the bottom of my heart that you will not lose either.

I fought the merchant’s son, of course. Now I see your brows crease into a frown, but you might be gladdened to hear that it was not I who first sought battle: it was Sean. One of the servants of Montagues began the battle with words, his tongue blunt and harsh and honest. Capulets like little the bitter taste of honesty, and Sean’s temper flared immediately, drawing his blade with fierce words about the carrying of coals. (Such a ridiculous turn of phrase for one such as he! He should have found his calling as a constable -- elegant phrases suit him as well as them.) When a Capulet blade shone bright in the sun, how can my blade remain sheathed? I will not be defenceless against any attack.

Strange, Orlando, strange it was that Sean is a merchant’s son, yet his skill with the sword was greater than any else I knew. If Verona was ever at war, perhaps he would make a good soldier. Not a commander for he was too intemperate a man for strategy, with his habit of announcing his every attack with a yell. The King of Cats he truly is! The scions of Capulet are all dark-haired, yet his is gold. A sign of his true class, surely; do merchants not love gold beyond all else? Like a tomcat in heat he yowls with every thrust of his sword. How the Capulets can stand his presence at the dining table, I do not know. Nero’s horse was allowed, but surely it was better behaved?

The Prince’s guards broke up the fight quickly, of course, and the Capulets retreated from the scene with their tails between their legs. I returned your family’s servants back to your estate, my friend, and when I returned I received yet another sermon. How easily our good Prince smother the flames of passion with an irritated gaze and but a few words! I do not care to repeat them. I daresay, however, that those are effective words: indeed, I do regret my actions. Am I not a man? I am no cat to so easily answer the King’s call. My disdain of the merchant’s son will only be justified if I act my station and practice restraint. I am determined: no longer will I taunt or fight Sean. I swear now I will not. Let ink and paper be my witness.

Now I must stop my pen. The Prince calls for me, and after I will meet you; you who walks, Orlando; you who are real and breathing, not you who exist only on this page and in my mind.

_21 March_

The letter I wrote the day previous haunts me still. I did not lie about my encounter with the Capulets yesterday morn, yet what my words spoke but a fraction of the truth. Is not the withholding of truth a form of dishonesty? The good philosopher Kant implied in his teachings that a lie told for the sake of saving a life is an evil deed; do you think it true? O my dear friend, I hope fervently you will forgive me. Surely you already know that I have kept truths from you? Even if you did not, my own mind has been wrought into an instrument of punishment: yesterday’s events refuse to leave my mind. It is a worm, creeping into the tree of myself, eating the leaves of my thoughts until I am aware of nothing but its bite and its teeth.

I cannot keep my vow! It has been barely a day since I made it, but I cannot! My blood sings, Orlando, when I face Sean in battle. My heart beat like a drum in my chest. Surely you understand, you who are passion’s slave. There is no time when I feel more alive than when my blade meets Sean’s, when our teeth are bared at each other like lions. I am a cat indeed, not worth the title of a man at all! A day has passed and I have only spoken so briefly of our encounter, yet I can still feel my breath quicken at the memory of our swords meeting, steel meeting steel, hoping to bite. 

Can a man love the hatred he feels in his heart? Will he ever be forgiven for seeking such a cold vice? Were that we were born in the times of knights! Our brawls would be battles then, sanctified by red and white roses on our lapels. Surely the joy Achilles finds in battle will find its mate in my heart when I raise my sword? Surely the great warriors of old would understand. If only I have a chance to speak to them! 

Alas, I am no great warrior. Not even in Homer have I found words enough to express this wrenching desire that threatens to tear my being into two. Ah, Orlando, you are lucky indeed: language forms itself sweetly to shape your love, and yet it shies away like a bashful maid for talk of hate and brawls and fights. There is no glory in the clash of Sean’s sword with mine; I fight him not for the sake of country, not even for the sake of names. We are two branches of rival trees, and though I will not sunder myself from your friendship, with but a few words I can absolve myself from the poisonous thirst for blood that so ruled your house and Capulet’s. Yet I seek it. More unforgiveable still: I rejoice in it. No longer can I envision a spring where Capulet rats do not roam, and when my sword will not be raised to try to cut them down.

O Orlando, many a times you have spoken to me of the great passions of love, of the light the mere sight of beautiful Cate could bring to your eyes. Will you not admit that there is passion in hate as well? A vicious, cruel passion, aching not for the soft touch of skin but in the heated burst of blood; yet it is passion, nonetheless, passion that might drive a man mad. Surely I am a fool to seek battle thus. Between Sean and me, I am of higher birth, but my blood is as red and runs as hot. Our swords care nothing for the rights of birth. A blade can cut through a peasant, or a maiden, just as easily as it can cut through a kinsman of a Prince.

I must be mad. There is no other explanation. In this dark moment, I find myself hoping that this rivalry will never end; that I will always be able to be Montague’s friend, able to hate Capulets and do battle with its King of Cats without need for any explanation. My fingers shake and my words have become a scrawl upon this page. You speak often of the madness of love, my friend, but I say instead, in words you will never have a chance to hear: this is true madness.

_25 March_

Verona’s beaches are beautiful, Orlando. Its sands are in a shade of gold untainted by any thoughts of riches or greed. If Midas has seen them, I am certain he will reject Dionysius’s offer for the golden touch that so ruined him. 

I have kept myself from my quill and inks for days. I had hoped that if I do not grasp so hopelessly for words, what I seek to capture will dissipate like mist, never again to perturb my mind. Foolish of me to try to busy myself with tasks and errands; it is nature herself, in her full unadorned glory, that now chases all thoughts of darkness and hatred from my mind. 

I will buy a new piece of art; this I have decided. It will hang in my sitting room, and of all those who enter, only those who can formulate intelligent comments about the piece will be allowed to stay. Perhaps it is a fortunate state of affairs that you have been captured by Cate, my dear friend, or else I will have to turn you out from my company. Nay, I jest. Nothing will ever cause me to turn sweet Orlando from me; after all, what will you do if you do not have me as listening ear to your passionate speeches?

O but I have begun so badly! I am tempted to tear this letter and begin anew, yet I dare not for I know that if I stop my quill, I will not be able to pick it up again. Let me begin from this day’s beginning. After breakfast I received a letter from our mutual acquaintance, Signor W—. (He will call himself my friend, and I will do the same to him. Yet I call him ‘acquaintance’ here in these letters I will not send, for inadvertently I feel resentment towards him. Signor W— is in an admirable position, situated between two rival families with deep ties to both, yet he aligned himself to neither and watched conflicts with a dispassionate eyes. Many a times my kinsman had insinuated that I should learn from his wisdom, but his disposition is a strange thing to me. How can he swear friendship without feeling the same animosity as those whom he swears he loves?) Signor W— is hosting an exhibition of new arts from new and untested artists from Verona, and he wishes for my presence for he knows my eye for such things. I agreed; there was little but errands that awaited me today. 

New artists are often said to be innocent and sweet, for their visions are unspoiled by the endless squabbles occurring within the domains of art appreciation. Signor W—’s handpicked choices are quite unfortunately lacking in that regard. They were but regurgitations of common sensibilities; as if they were all drawn by the same hand who sat himself in front of the great works of our days and days past and sought to copy them and yet captured none of their genius. They were all quite disappointing; all but one. It is this piece that I will now attempt to describe.

The subject is familiar; trite, perhaps. Verona’s golden beaches crowned by its sapphire seas with its tall, proud lighthouse in the distance are what the artist sought to capture. Yet it is no landscape, no mere attempt to render the splendour of nature in paint. No, the piece was most unnatural: the colours are stark and bright, the lines blurred and uneven. It does not soothe; it provokes. It pulls at my eyes until I see naught else but it. How can I explain the effect a mere piece of art has to you, Orlando, you who recognise beauty only when it takes the form of the fair sex, or in words? Words fail me even now as I looked at the piece captured within my own flawed memory. If you can only see it the way I do, my friend! It seems the artist has taken his seat behind my very eyes and looked upon that very beach. Nature’s wildness has been drawn to the surface by paints in the fashion I can only hope to accomplish. 

I stood there staring for a long time. I know not how many minutes past; my head is too empty to note my own heartbeat. It is only a familiar, unwelcomed voice that interrupted my stupor.

“What ho! So the famed friend of Montague has come to pretend knowledge of the arts?”

It is of course the King of Cats, he who has found his way somehow out of the forest into civilisation without remembering his manners. My wits have deserted me in the sight of great beauty, because I found no quick reply on my tongue when he continued: “What an ugly piece you have set your eyes on. Fitting; for it is as ugly as you are!”

“Ugly!” I cried. “Why, you have betrayed your own lack of culture, unfair relative of Capulet! Can you not see the soul of art itself that shines through every brush stroke, every colour chosen? Nature herself would weep at the sight of this piece, for the artist has accomplished a rare thing indeed: he has captured her true likeness, without subduing it!”

My passion has taken the merchant’s son by surprise, and he gapes at me with an open mouth. I am triumphant indeed! Viciousness comes easily to a cat’s rough tongue; now I know how easily it is to silence the creature. Sean retreated from his presence, but my peace has been broken and I will not look at beauty while rage reigned in my heart. I left the exhibition, and by foot I travelled to the very scene the artist has netted so brilliantly. Nature has not changed the face she shows here—the beaches are still as tame as before—but I felt joy as never before, for I know now—I know!—that I am not the only one who seeks so desperately for the licking fire that hides within the edges of peaceful gold.

I must go now. I must own it. I do not care how much it will cost me. Even if Signor W— asks for a dragon’s hoard of coins, I will pauper myself to give it. O, I do hope no one has stolen it from my grasp—

 

If there are any gods left to grant wishes, I will ask— yes, I will ask! There is naught I wish for than for the ability to know if a piece of knowledge I seek will be to my advantage, or my ruin. O, Orlando, I fear I am destroyed. My heart is in turmoil, and all the peace I have written of but hours before is now lost to me. My friend, I wish more than ever that you are more than paper. I wish I can truly speak to you of this, but I cannot— I cannot! How can I speak to you of this when my own heart seems lost to me? No, I must not. I must confine myself to this paper.

Let me attempt to recreate the scene.

I returned to the Signor W—’s house and bought the art piece that moved me so, and when I received it, wrapped lovingly by his servants’ hands, I begged the good man to tell me of the artist’s name. I cannot live without the knowledge of a man whose work had touched my heart so, I told him. He was reluctant, but I pestered, and eventually I wore him down and he did. Oh, if only I had been wise and left him be! I will be haunted by the mystery, yes, but that is a better fate than this punishment for my curiosity than this punishment I have brought unto myself!

Even now my hands tremble at the revelation. The artist, the man whom I praised so highly and even now I cannot stop the compliments from issuing from my lips or fingers—the artist is the King of Cats himself! The merchant’s son! The most unworthy creature amongst all Capulets, if not all Verona itself or even the world! It was in his heart’s work that I saw my own beating, and I—

Oh, Orlando, I wished nothing more than to toss away the piece Signor W—‘s servants have wrapped so lovingly. Yet I found my fingers tightening on the edge of the frame. I do not remember the walk home. My mind was in turmoil, my heart cried out in pain—even now as I sit behind this desk, the sun long set and the candle burned down to almost a nib, I can find no true calm within myself. I had hoped, so hoped, that recalling the day’s events will bring me some clarity. Surely I was taken in by illusions? Surely I was most unjustly fooled? A man such as Sean, a man made for hatred, could not create such beauty! 

These words pour from my own hand, but I stare at them, uncomprehending. I cannot deny that my deepest emotions have been roused by the mere sight of the painting. I know I must, for the sake of my own sanity if nothing else, but I cannot! There is no will within myself that will allow for it. I found my feet and hands conspiring against me: the painting now hangs in my sitting room. I placed it there myself. O my dear friend, surely you must think that I am a fool. You must, for I am foolish even to my own eyes! As I look upon the piece I still see my own heart even though I know the hands that have created it are unworthy hands, hated hands. 

Is this a Capulet’s idea of a jest? Is this a trick? The merchant’s son has spoken so disparaging of his own work—if it is his work at all. No, it must be; Signor W— is neither a cruel man nor is he a liar. Could the King of Cats have found a simple man, a true artist, and bade him to create artworks in his name? These are ridiculous notions. I am the jester, not he. And yet… yet… O, my mind chases its own tail and ties itself up into a Gordian’s knot! 

Events I have laid bare on ink and paper, but I have found no clarity. My mind struggles against all that my heart feels. I have become Verona herself, with my mind as Montague and my heart Capulet, and all of my being cries out in agony at this conflict.

I will find no rest tonight.

_2 April_

Have you ever seen the bright stars and the full moon on the witching hour? It is now night and the city is silent but for the soft breaths of sleeping creatures. Now is the time when all who lived on this Earth are joined in sleep. There are animals that prowl the night, of course, but even they are lit up by the stars and moon no matter how much they try to hide within the shadows. I wish I am one of them. The fierce owl riding the clouds will never be accused of having a heavy heart; and the quiet dormouse, creeping out of its lair under the cover of night, has no great worries to perturb her. Their home is nature’s own bosom and their food they catch themselves. Civilisation has done great harm to man: surely there was a time when humans have simple lives as these animals that I admire so.

Often I have wished to be amongst the stars. O Orlando, I know you will disagree, for it is within people that you find your joy. Though I enjoy the company of friends, I find tonight that friendship might become a double-edged knife at any moment, and I struggle now to avoid the blade that is aimed at my heart. How I wish to be amongst the stars now! They are cold and lonely above, never one touching another, and yet is not such loneliness also an escape from pain? If one does not ever allow any other to enter their heart, the borders of that fragile thing would never become like glass, smashed to pieces at a single touch. 

I have always loved silver; that you know well. You have named it a dull colour, but within this soft metal is captured the light of the stars and the moon. These celestial bodies I love, yet like Icarus, I am drawn inexorably towards the sun; but unlike the great son of Daedalus, I fear that my wings will melt, and I will fall to my doom. Fall! o fall! How my own words now betray me now! Indeed, my dear friend, I have fallen. O Orlando, will you ever forgive me? I write now on this paper knowing you can never reply; you will never see these words. Yet let me cling onto the hopes that I might have your forgiveness, as foolish as it might be.

My dear friend, I know I must tell you what has happened today. Only when I form words around an event is it made real and true instead of something akin to a dream. Yet I am afraid, unbearably so—I am made a coward, for I do not wish for today to be real. O Dionysius, cruel god of wine and joy, will you not grant me the ability to erase any day from existence, or even from my memory? I wish to forget today. I wish to forget this turmoil that surges within me until I am left incoherent, language my dearest friend escaping from my grasp. I need to forget, but I cannot. Even now the memory creeps inside me, twists like thorny veins around the glass hidden in the depths of my chest. If I attempt to rip it out of myself, I fear that I will be left scarred, bleeding from the insides with wounds formed by thorns and shards.

Calm, self! I must be calm. Let me tell of today. I met the merchant’s son (o how difficult this epithet is to write now!) in the streets. We were alone, and for the first time in our enmity I was mute and left utterly at a loss of words. I looked upon him, and, oh, if only I am able to see nothing but the man I have hated for so long! 

Sean scorned my silence, “Has the ever-loquacious friend of Montague lost his tongue? Surely crows mourn now that one of their numbers had been lost.” At the moment, I nearly thanked him for his harsh insults (it is indeed peculiar, the manner Sean spoke of my friendship with you, as if I am debased by it) for hatred was a poisonous creature, yet it was far less treacherous than confusion.

“Ho, King of Cats!” I cried in reply. “None will name you dumb if you do not speak! Nay, you will be marked wiser, for your words prove naught by your absurdity!” 

“Absurd, you say?” Sean threw the words as if they were a fiery shaft meant to pierce my heart. His eyes were cat-golden, lightning bottled in his eyes. “No more absurd than a man who bought a painting made by a Capulet’s hand at one moment and throw insults at him the next!”

“Surely sweet Muse herself cannot escape the calumnious strokes of a grasping man?” I returned, my own words filled with the vicious dew of calamitous youth. “Her mercy allows an unworthy artist to behold her for even a night!”

“Rich words, friend of Montague, for one whose black brow’d nights have never been so touched!” snorted Sean, baring his teeth like a bear. “Why, ever are your words coarse!”

“A merchant’s son lecturing me on the coarseness of language?” I crowed, incredulous. “This must be the day where opposites rule indeed! Are the cats’ King’s lips unlike the sandpaper tongues of his subjects?” 

Suddenly, Sean stilled. He stood there silent, his eyes boring into my own. I admit freely that I was disconcerted, for rarely have we ever simply looked at each other. When he moved, he did so with such speed that I yelped and did nothing as he pulled me to an alleyway near the street. (I am right in naming him the King of Cats for many more reasons than I knew when I dubbed him so; did not cheetahs and lionesses leap from stillness to great speed?) 

His eyes bored into mine. My lungs refused to breathe, and at the moment, I believe we would burst into battle, this far away from other eyes. The Prince’s guards would take long moments before they found us, and my heart pounded heart at the mere thought of battle. At last! a chance that I might erase all thoughts and leave my mind to the mercies of my body! I parted my lips to speak, a cutting remark on my tongue to goad Sean into drawing his sword (I have forsaken my vow, but I have not forgotten it), but his tongue was quicker than mine.

“Do you only see me as a merchant’s son?”

My dear friend, my mind gropes desperately for the words to describe the sound of Sean’s voice, but even now I am left with emptiness. Not once have I heard him speak like this, and though I knew the small tremble I hear was worthy of mockery, I found myself only gasping. Cold fingers dug me and closed around my heart, and I felt like a butterfly, fluttering weakly beneath the pin of his gaze.

“You are also the King of Cats,” I answered. Now, my friend, I will write all I can about all that happens next without allowing thought to interfere. This is the only way I am able to do so, I fear, and I know I must write. Yet if I think, I will only drive myself into circles again.

Sean grabbed me by the shoulders and I struggled against him, another insult at my lips. “You have a silver tongue, but I wonder if you have ever been honest,” he growled at me and pressed me hard against the brick wall. Cold stone stole into my clothes and curled around my spine. I would have fought back, I wished to do naught else, yet Sean surprised me once more and he placed his lips to mine— nay, nay I cannot say he ‘placed’ them. He crushed our lips together and my teeth rocked from the contact.

I wished to bite. O but if I did!— yet my body betrayed me! It betrays me still! I found my lips parting; I found my hand cupping his neck, drawing him close. I felt his heartbeat beating alongside mine, a staccato beat that formed a violent melody. Can music soothe and arouse at once? Can such a thing as this be considered music? Sheep guts can draw out the soul of man from its confines, but what name could give for one heart’s attempt to escape the cage of ribs to seat itself beside another?

I am a fool; or perhaps I am not. Am I made a jester by fate, or by Sean? At the moment with my body against his, I expected contempt. Yes, even now I turn my head to the door and expect to see him there, leaning indolently against the door with an insult ready on his lips. Is that foolishness? I should know best, should I not, for am I not the jester of the Prince’s court? The image of Sean at my door fills my heart with hope. Even if I receive nothing but disdain from him, even if I return nothing but the same, I will wish to see him.

No, Orlando, I will not shy away from telling you what happens next between us. We rutted like animals against each other within the alley where any and all could have found us white-handed. He yowls like a tomcat in heat in anger, I have once said, but now I know that in arousal the noises he makes are far more delightful. Little gasps he made, heated breath against my lips, and I fear I have been ruined forever. Surely Sean has deliberately coloured his every exhale with ink and as I drew breath from his lips I found the sound scrawling across the insides of my lungs and into his mind. As much as I try to feel shame for this, I cannot help but admit that I have found a new home there—right there, in the filthy alley between the wall and Sean’s body. 

O my friend, you have spoken me so often of love but why have you not ever warned me it can crush one like this? There is no sense in all that we have done, none whatsoever, and my hands shake even now. How can my heart betray my mind so? Even my love for the sound of clashing swords has not troubled me like this. I can already hear your voice now, my friend—‘Is love not the greatest of all things? What does hate and rivalries matter? Even Nemesis herself took interest in the fate of lovers!’ Ah, Orlando, if only fate has made me more like you. If it has made me for sweet and tender love instead of rage and battle, if my tongue is more used to speaking gentle passions rather than hate, if my hands curl more naturally around a lover’s body than a sword, I swear my mind will not attempt to bite its own tail now. Yet I am not. How can one day unmake a person and force them to dislike all that they have become! Will you ever understand this, my friend? I am no criminal, and I have committed no crime, but I find myself wishing that I am somebody else. I find myself regretting for but a moment my friendship with you. Ah, I am in the cruellest of binds! I cannot imagine sundering myself from you, or even from Dominic. Your friendships have been a harbour in the storms of my life for far too long. No, I will not linger any longer on what cannot be. Let me continue the tale to its inglorious ending.

Our last touches were gifted to our own breeches, and like a coward I fled the scene, but passion has brought cowardice into Sean’s heart as well, for I saw the quickness of his steps as he left towards the Capulet house. I did not return to my own quarters for a time; indeed, I write to you right here atop the tallest tree in Verona’s great gardens, with new-bought quill, ink and paper. I cannot return home; within my rooms lie all that defines me. The painting still sits in my sitting room. Should I remove it? Will pulling out the nail I have hammered into the wall with my hands eradicate this strange, inexplicable emotion I now feel towards Sean?

I must try it. Like ink Sean’s breath has spread within me, but surely it is only ink, and can be removed by water or blotting paper.

_3 April_

I have now returned to my rooms. I cannot escape it any longer. Forgive my terrible penmanship; I write not in my study or sitting room, but on my bed. Here is the great window that opens out towards the Prince’s gardens. Surely it is amongst these gently-tamed trees and well-kept blossoms that I belong. I am high-born, kinsman to a Prince, and like these hothouse flowers I will one day inherit I am naught but a man spoiled by all that he has been given in life. What affinity do I have with wild things? Even my swordplay seems made for dance and performance than for battle.

My heart is a foolish creature, and it has led me down paths that I should have never treaded for those footprints are ill-made for my feet. In the light of the day I find my eyes shying from the sun. I am no Icarus, no great hero of the old whose might in battle and whose affairs of love are writ in poetry and remembered for generations. I am but a man of Verona, aged and withered and unfit for such dreams and fancies.

Two days ago was the _poisson d’avril_ , the first of April, the day of fools. Though my letters to you have carried the time, I had not noticed its passing. The Prince this morn told me over breakfast about the pranks pulled by the Capulet house (and your house as well, as you surely know) upon their servants, sending them on ridiculous errands. It was a small conversation, and I do not believe the Prince knows the boon he has given me. My eyes have been opened by his words.

Do you recall Chaucer’s tale, of the vain cock tricked by the sly fox? Ah, daylight is a blessing, for now I know I have been made into Chaunteleer with wool pulled over my eyes. The King of Cats has been misnamed; his trick was belated by a day, but now I see his bushy red tail. He has made me into a jest; surely in Capulet’s house he now crows over his victory over me. I have fallen into the trap as surely as any blind fool whose eyes are fixed upon the skies instead of the ground. Have I not already known the heat of his lips? Many a times we have kissed in taunt, and aye, I have always been the instigator of such mockery; after all, is there any greater mockery of another than in pretending intimacy? Now he used my scam on me, and like a fool I have always been accused of being, I was taken in by it.

Surely there is no greater fool in Verona than Viggo, kinsman of the Prince! How could I have ever believed he will ever feel the touch of softer emotions towards a man he has always derided as a friend of Montague? No, this was naught but a jest indeed; I know that full well now. A fool of April I have been made, little better than the men of old who clung to an outdated calendar after the Julian was made official. Long have I clung to mythologies and legends, venerating the great heroes of olden days for their valour and courage! Such things are ill-suited to this age, are they not? Our spirits as modern men are far more suited to well-kept gardens than wild forests; neat beaches with tame sky-like seas rather than the harsh crashes of waves in storms.

Farewell, nature, sweet and intemperate mistress! Only cities will have any hold upon my soul now. I have clung onto naïve dreams for too long. My heart I shall now sunder from myself. The Prince has long told me I must look upon policies and learn the ways of law; long have I thought his words to be mere nagging, but now I know it to be grand and true advice. Ah, Verona’s courts are my true home, and I have neglected them for far too long in my imprudence.

I will not remove the painting from my sitting room. It serves well as a reminder that I should not trust my heart’s speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “Calumnious strokes of a grasping man” and “vicious dew of calamitous youth” are both bastardised from Hamlet Act 1 Sc 3.   
>  \- “Black brow’d night” stolen from Romeo and Juliet Act 3 Sc 2.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

Orlando took a long, shuddering breath and placed the last letter he read back into the pile. His hands groped blindly to the side, capturing Miranda’s small one in his own as he pulled her into his arms.

“I remember now,” he said. “There were a few days when my dear friend was very much distracted, and he would not speak to us. Dominic and I teased him. ‘Have your silver tongue turned to lead?’, we said. If only I knew what weighed so heavily in his heart then!”

He stared down at his own hands, taking a shuddering breath. “Why has he kept these letters and not send them? Why did he not tell me all of this? Though many call him a fool, he had always given me wise counsel! Why has he not gifted me the chance to return the favour to him?”

“I don’t know the answer to such questions,” said Miranda. She lifted her head, tracing her fingers over his cheek. “I only wish that my cousin did not burn his journal.” 

“’Twas he who begun the kiss,” Orlando said quietly. “Why did he do that? I thought he held only hatred in his heart for my friends and me.”

“Perhaps if we read on, we might know more,” suggested Miranda. “Perhaps my cousin will tell your friend his reasons.” Despite her words, she looked upon the letters as if they were wild beasts that would leap upon her at once. Perhaps she was not wrong to do so, for the contents for these innocent paper-pieces already preyed on Orlando’s heart and mind.

“No,” said Orlando. “No, not today. Let us give ourselves and the dead a rest, and continue this tomorrow morn.”

“No, Orlando, we must continue,” Miranda shook her head. “Time has not given herself so freely to us. The funerals will be held tomorrow, and they will be buried in separate tombs. That mustn’t happen; I want to know more, Orlando. I _need_ to, so I might have the words to convince the Prince and parents to allow them to lie together in death.”

“To bury them together!” exclaimed Orlando. “What gave you the idea?”

“’Tis a feeling that reaches deep within my heart and grasps it with hot, spidery hands,” said Miranda, shuddering. She reached up suddenly, her hands cupping Orlando’s jaw. “If I died, will you not wish for us to be buried together?”

“Don’t talk about things like that!” Orlando said, placing a finger on her lips. “Please understand this, Miranda: if you die, I will find any and all possible ways to come to you, and I will die beside you, or beside your tomb if I must.” His eyes bored into hers. “There is surely no living without you.”

“Those are beautiful words, Orlando,” said Miranda, and smiled. 

Orlando leaned in, kissing his love swiftly. It lightened his heart to see her smile, but his eyes were drawn once more to the letters. “Do you believe their love is like ours?” he asked hesitantly. “Surely it isn’t? I know only the beginning and end of this affair, but they use such cruel ways on each other, and I have never seen or heard of any love like that!”

Miranda laid her head on his chest. “’Tis a different love, but love nonetheless. I have no doubts about that.” She shook her head, and her eyes were determined as they met his. “No matter the argument, my lord, we have to continue.”

Turning his head away, Orlando considered his own rooms. Long had he spent here, and long had this place given him comforts, yet now he considered the shadows hidden in the corners, and wondered if he could ever look upon these familiar walls without harbouring a small seed of dread in his heart.

“Very well, my gently insistent lady,” he said, turning back to Miranda. He smiled slightly, pressing his finger against a plush lip. “I give in. But hear me out: I wish for us to head for the gardens. These might be my rooms, but they feel almost inhumanly oppressive. There are too many hours I have spent with my friend here, and there are echoes of our voices. I can almost hear him as I read.” He took a deep breath, “His voice seems to take over mine sometimes.” 

Shuddering, Miranda wrapped her arms around him. “The gardens, Orlando? Why?”

Orlando held his love close, his fingers trailing through her rich hair. “I thought I knew him well, though he was rarely constant, but I recognise now that there is so much of him I don’t know.” _Yet he knows me so well_ , he thought, and brushed the thought away for it perturbed his heart too much. “But he has never stepped into our gardens to my knowledge; he has always hated them because, in his own words, nature should never be so cruelly declawed.”

He pulled away from Miranda, reaching for the last letter and tracing his fingers over the words written by a hand that was now cold. 

“This letter sounds nothing like him at all.”

Miranda stood, reaching out both hands, open-palmed, towards him. “Let us head for the gardens now, my husband,” she said. “Let the Sun chase away the ghosts in your heart.”

*

“I did not know my cousin as well as you did your friend,” Miranda began as Orlando led her to a sheltered pavilion within the gardens of Montague. “Even so, I can barely believe there was not a single word spoken of his artistry. I have only heard of his fame earned through swordsmanship.”

“How little we know of another, no matter it is blood or time we share,” sighed Orlando. He glanced over to Miranda, stroking a gentle hand over her cheekbones. “Let us never keep any secrets from each other.”

“Ah, will you then tell me of this beautiful Cate you hold such affection for?” Miranda raised an eyebrow, the dimple in her cheek deepening as she smiled.

“Held, my love! _Held_!” cried Orlando. He left his friend’s letters on the bench, reaching out to take both of Miranda’s hands into his own. “’Twas but an infatuation, I swear!”

“Have no worries, Orlando; I merely tease. After all, am I not now a Montague?” replied Miranda.

Raising her hands, Orlando kissed them fervently. “My soul has found its mate in you, my love; never doubt that,” he said. “In my youth I had looked upon many beauties and pined after them, but now I am a man, and you are my wife.”

“Your wife commands you to continue reading these letters, for the sun sinks quickly,” said Miranda, her smile widening. “Come now, Orlando: let these men no longer be strangers to us. Perhaps if we know them truly, they will be remembered well.”

Chuckling, Orlando kissed her cheek again, but he obeyed nonetheless, picking the next letter out of the pile and unfolding it.

***

_7 April_

How might a man ever take the true measure of himself? How might one man ever take the true measure of another? It takes courage and great wisdom, greater than any I have possessed, to know turn away from the abyss of knowledge rather than taking another step. All humankind lives on the edge of the cliff, blindfolded and stumbling, never knowing when he might fall over the edge. Oh, but if I have the wisdom to say, ‘Stop, there is naught more I wish to know of you, trouble me no more.’

Sean is not a fox; nay, ‘tis cruel Fate who is the true vixen and both of us are made to the image of Chantecleer. Currents have pushed us from the comforting spring into the very depths of the ocean, and now I scrabble and claw for the surface but I fear I will never find it. Once more my fingers grasp uselessly at words. Must I write down all that has happened between us? Oh, if only memories and events fade into mist if we do not write! If only they will change and turn as insubstantial as misted breath in the winter chill! Words held their dominion over me for most of this night; now they leave me, and I am bereft and cold and afraid.

Sleep, gentle sleep, take me now so I might no longer think! Morpheus, find the waters of Lethe such that I will forget this night! If any god exists who still listens with mercy to the cries of man, let him grant a desperate one his wish: Let me forget! I have lost my heart, leaving only emptiness. Surely a heartless man has no need for tender memories?

O, even as I beg so fervently, the hollow in my chest where my heart used to be refuses to obey. I must not forget. These new memories are as precious as precious to me as new-birthed jewels freshly dug from the earth, and just as sharp-edged. I hold them within my hands alongside a new, precious burden. Can a sword-callused hand hold thin glass without shattering it? Oh, if I have answers to all of these questions! 

The candle sears me. Green eyes haunt me within its flames. I must leave my desk.

_8 April_

Love is ephemeral and fleeting. Romance has form only in beautiful words men and boys use to lure women to their beds. Love is a ridiculous thing: so fickle, so blind, so very, very out of reach. Paris stole Helen from her marital bed and a thousand ships were launched to retrieve her, yet the Prince of Troy’s vanity surely exceeds any love he has ever felt for the legendary beauty. Love favours him, yet was Love herself not prone to vanity? Ah, the woman who finds her happiness with Love’s son was hated by Aphrodite herself for her beauty. Would it not be better to be hated by Love instead?

Oh, Orlando, I can already see your frown. You despise it so when I speak so frankly about my thoughts on love. So many times you have cried that you will die for Love, that you will give up your short and brilliant life for just one moment with a lady who returns all of your affections. I wish more than ever to believe in your words, but what has Love done for me? Love makes my heart weep and my mind curse my fate. The Greeks are truly wise; have they not named Aphrodite the patron of Jealousy? I am jealous, my friend; deeply, bitterly jealous of you, for you are young and unspoiled while I am made of a much more bitter material, the toy of cruel Fate.

I cannot delay writing any longer. So I will write, my dear friend. I will set quill upon paper, and in doing so engrave my sorrows into stone.

The stars were bright yesternight, though the moon was waning, turning her shy face away from the Earth. The clock’s face showed me the witching hour as I slipped out of the door. Sleep eluded me, and the winds were so still that I thought I might die in the heat of my rooms. Oh, if I had the patience to withstand such a small discomfort! Yet if I had—nay, let me tell this story in a proper manner. Great bards of the past! Homer, Virgil, Ovid, lend me your skills and your manner such that I might tell this tale as if it is not my own! I fear I might fail in this task, but I must at least try.

Verona is fair in the day, but in the night it is alien to the eyes with its many shadows. Yet my feet knew the way better than my mind, and I found myself in an alley, the same one that had overturned my life (was it only six days ago? it seems a lifetime). There, lit by stars and moon and streetlamp, I found Sean. It seemed he could not sleep either, and the two of us looked at each other. Oh, how his eyes glowed in the dark! Oh, how much showed within those eyes! They are windows to the soul, it was said, but I saw not only his soul but his heart and mind in the single glance we exchanged. I searched so desperately for a taunt but could find none on my lips. Even my usual insults of ‘King of Cats’ and ‘merchant’s son’ ran away from me like Daphne from Apollo, for I knew them to be false. Those words captured so little of who Sean truly is. 

Sean turned away without a word— oh, if only I had let him go! If only I was not such a fool! Yet I found my body moving, and I grasped his wrist. His skin was warm against mine, as if his heart was a furnace that burned within him and his blood carried the heat until it near-scorched me.

“Do not leave,” I said. “’Tis a beautiful night, and the enmities of the day are washed away by Nyx’s soothing fingers.”

“Ever you call upon the Greek gods in your speech,” Sean replied, and he did not pull himself away from my grasp. “Do you wish that you were born in that age, to have become a great hero celebrated through time in songs and tales?”

His words caught my breath in my throat and I could not breathe in that one moment. How could he have seen so deeply into me and pulled out my hopes for the moon to gawk at? Anger came to me again, but I made the mistake of looking of looking into his eyes. There was no jeer there that I could see, and I realised he spoke with wistfulness, as if those words captured not my dreams, but his own.

“If we are great warriors, then you would be a Trojan, and I an Acheaen,” I said, and my feet took me a single pace closer to him. “Our battles would not have been mocked or disapproved of, but gloried, for then we would be warriors.”

“I am no Prince of Troy,” Sean snorted. “Have you not always named me a merchant’s son? You are right in that, for my name is a plain one. I am no Capulet.”

The anger kept dammed burst forth, and I pulled away from him, stalking into the shadows of the alley. “Oh, if only that is true!” I cried. My voice sliced through the silence of the night. “If you are no Capulet, then—”

I could not continue, for Sean’s arm was around my shoulders and his lips upon my own. His tongue darted between my lips, stroking over my teeth with great passion. I gasped, and I tasted him. Like fire itself he was: the heat of his skin burned hot against my own, and I knew that fire will ever destroy or be destroyed. If the house does not burn, then the hearth fire will be reduced to embers. Ash was in his kiss, coupled with honey; passion I felt in my heart, battling with despair. I held him close, pulling his body to mine, and oh at the moment I wished we were as blissful as Baucius and Philemon! If only we were turned into oak and linden then, never again to be parted, sundered from all human cares of the world!

I wish that still. The light of the morning has not diminished my desires; it has only illuminated them, showing the thorns that have wrapped themselves around me, piercing through me. There are no scars on my skin; a pity, for if the heart’s wounds show upon the body, they might be easier to bear.

“You are no Montague,” said Sean. His breath ghosted across my lips, and I admit I trembled then, for it was a greater tenderness than I ever felt or have ever felt. “You have a choice. Take the path of your kinsman: be the neutral party, swayed by neither family. Walk further down that route; be a friend to both.”

My heart twisted. How similar we truly are when our harsh masks had been ripped from us! Have I not pondered the same days before? Have I not wondered the same?

“Will any Capulet reach their hand towards me?” I said, and bitterness near swallowed my whole self. “You have long called me a friend of Montague, and that is how I am known to Verona.”

“You will not try?” whispered Sean. If he had sounded angry, if he pushed me away instead of laying his head upon my shoulder, then perhaps I will find the strength to walk away and close my heart to him. Yet there was his hand in my hair, tugging on the short strands, and with each pull my heart drew even closer to him.

“I can no more sunder myself from my friends than you from your relatives,” I said. “I have known the Montague boys since I was a child—they are like brothers to me, and Montague himself is like a father.”

“If you have met me instead when we were children, would we have been friends? Would you have been known as the friend of Capulet instead?” said Sean. His hand was in my hair, and I would not have thought him capable of such tenderness but a month before. For whole lives Man thinks he knows the truth about his world, yet that certainty can be snatched from him in but a single day. Irony, thou art a truly unkind mistress.

“No man knows the consequences of the paths he did not take,” I said. “Time will not be allowed to turn back; our childhoods are long lost to us. Yet might we not have friendship now? Will you not extend your hand towards me as a Capulet?”

“I wish to, yet I find that path to be full-dark. Lord Capulet is my unwilling uncle, because I am the living proof of the folly of his house and how close he was to ruin before he married my aunt. The Capulet House might bear his name, but it was held by currency he gained through marriage.” Sean sighed, a deep and heavy sound. “No, he holds little fondness for me, and I have no sway with him. He will rather sever me from my family than renounce his hatred for my sake.”

Always lovers are told to be honest with each other, yet now I wished he had lied to me, or kept such truths away such that I might believe him deceitful. Yet then he stripped himself bare before my eyes and I know his words to be sincere. If only we might thrust ourselves away from each other! I know I should, yet I found myself wrapping my arms around him, wishing desperately I could envelop him with my arms and take him far away from this city that is both home and prison to us. 

“If only we are plain men,” I cried. “We might escape this city to another, and leave the all-consuming shadows behind.”

“Nay, we cannot. Too much ties us to Verona,” Sean laughed, and it was a bitter sound. “You are neither Montague nor Capulet, so you do not see. This feud between the great houses cannot be washed away by us. Only blood, a full river of it, can wash the streets of Verona clean, and we are caught in its currents.”

“If you believe any tenderness between us to be doomed, why did you kiss me?” the words burst forth from my lips like rushing waterfalls, and I wished to drink them back. Yet Sean took no offence, and his laughter was a cool drink from the spring.

“There was invitation writ in your mouth, and there was naught I would do than to take it, Viggo.” I started then, for it was the first time I have heard my name on those lips for a very long time. Long had the two of us called each other by insulting names, as if our real names were drowned, silenced, in the ocean of hate.

I parted my lips to speak, gentle tease at the tip of my tongue (“Are you well-versed in the reading of such invitations,” I thought to ask), but Sean shook his head. I was suddenly bereft of his heat, and he walked towards the wall, running his fingers over the rough brick. Did he seek to find answers there? I do not know. I could barely see him in the darkness, and his eyes were veiled from me.

“Can you hear the cries of the city?” Sean asked suddenly. “She cries for the spark that will swallow the two houses that tears her apart. Fire will cleanse her just as easily as it will consume all of us, in the end. ‘Tis only a matter of time.”

Spring waters dried to ashes in my mouth, and I could not help my harsh words: “You seem fixated on death tonight.”

“Aye, I have thought often of death, for I see no other way that this feud can end,” Sean said, and I was greatly shocked at the change in his voice. Not by the blackness of despair—for he spoke of dark things—but by the roughness, as if he was revealing to me his true self, the merchant’s son who voiced cold philosophy with a trader’s rough dialect. I find no way to capture it in page, but it lingers in my mind like a clarion call, and you must surely hear it.

“Surely there must be another way,” I said, desperately. “The Prince tries to keep peace as best he can, and I will do the same.”

“A single spark, Viggo; that is all it will take.” Sean turned, and his eyes pierced me in the darkness like the polished, gleaming tip of a spear. 

“Your cynicism blackens your lips and turns you foul, Sean. Turn away from it. There might still be hope left. If we do not believe in hope, we will never find a way to escape the dark shadows that escape at every corner,” I said, grasping at words to comfort. Yet I knew they were but a weak protest, and I found my hands shaking once more as I reached out, drawing Sean close, resting my head upon his shoulder.

Words welled up in my heart, a river bursting through a dam, drowning all within its reach. “You fear revenge. You fear that if one life is lost, then another will be taken for payment, and another taken, and the cycle only ends when all are dead.” Dark words, cruel words, and oh if they were only the creation of the cold night! No, even in the light of day, I know them to be true. 

“Will you grant me a cruel oath, if I ask it of you?”

Sean’s fingers were rough, sword-callused, but their touch was tender upon my lip, tracing the white scar above. “There has been nothing you have ever asked of me. Nothing in the whole of my life. Now you do so, and your wish to do so is far more vicious than any request you might put forth. I am a fool, Viggo, for aye, I will grant it, no matter the wish.”

My hand spread out upon his chest, and I felt the steady drum of his heart. I found myself wishing for that reminder that he lived now, that death was away though night surrounded us, and the soft, warm gusts of his breath against my temple was sweeter than any touch I have ever felt and will ever feel again.

“If in the heat of the moment, I wound you or you me past the point of saving, then allow us to end that cycle there. Let us die together, by each other’s hands.” I looked up to him, and the sorrow in his eyes near stopped my heart and breath in that one moment. Yet the words could not be denied. “If the world will not allow us to love, then let us find love in death.”

“You will call this love?” asked Sean, and his voice was blank to me.

Is this love? Is what we have such a sweet-sounding thing? I have spent nearly my entire life hating him, and though many have said that hate and love are joined together, both only the other side of another, I can barely believe how quickly my heart has changed. Has it changed? Is this love? We have tasted only each other’s lips. I have yet to see him smile. Yet my heart cries out that I already know him as much as one man can another—nay, better, for he has the courage to lay his heart out in a painting, and in it I saw my own heart mirrored. How can I not know him when our hearts and eyes and minds seem so much in harmony?

My mind knew not. It knows not, even now. Yet a part of me could form words then, and these I spoke: “In the past, if you have asked what I feel for you, I will say there is only hate. Yet now hate is far from me, so far that I do not think even great ships will allow me to reach it. You have turned me inside out until I barely know myself. But I know this: if I can have but one wish, I will ask to see myself reflected forever in your smiling eyes.”

Sean grasped my hands in his, bringing them up to his mouth. He kissed my knuckles with his eyes fixed upon mine. “Aye,” he told me, and oh, it was a sweet promise indeed, as sweet as poison. 

Oh, were that mine is an unrequited passion! If I am alone in my love, I would have allowed him to thrust me against the wall twice or thrice, and hate him once more afterward for the dispassion of his gaze. Were that I am blind, and does not see how his eyes glow with gentle emotions now as they meet mine! Yet I am not blind, yet he is honest in his desires, and I know we are doomed indeed. Two branches of rival trees, unable to break ourselves from our kin. Twined with love in those green eyes is fear, as black as the shadows around us.

As heavy lids fell to veil green light, I felt the chill of the night sink down to my bones. I watched Sean bent over my hands, his eyes closed, and I thought then that surely this is how he will look like when he dies. 

I clash my lips with his in desperation. Was it to seal the promise we made? Was it to chase the darkness away? I did not know. I do not know even now. I know I ache to feel his fire against my skin even though I might be burnt to ashes by it. No man will choose love if he knows it brings so much pain. There is no choice in this; it simply is.

In your times of great passion, my dear friend, you have asked me what I might wish to die for. Always I had naught but jests for you, but now I know the true answer. I will die for peace, for she is a kind lady sorely needed in our fair Verona. I will die for peace so gentle souls like yours will never have to suffer the torment that now plagues me without rest. I will die for peace so love can be born without any need for hatred or fear. My breath chokes in my throat even as I write these words. I can barely breathe.

The shadows grow closer and closer. Sean is the Sun, but is it not the Sun himself who casts the shadows? He has brought me light, and he has brought the shadows to me. I am afraid, Orlando. I am terrified. I now head towards a path shrouded by fog, and I fear the Reaper awaits me at the end. 

Yet now I reach out my hand in my mind, and I feel Sean’s warmth. Thus the fear seems bearable, if only for a moment.

_20 April_

The letters of previous days have been burnt. If only the fire might destroy all signs of my newfound sweetness so I will not grieve for its loss! Nay, that I have ruined with my own hands without need for flames, and now my hands tremble for fear of losing that which I wished to disavow but weeks ago. I have left a few letters untouched; my hands would not obey me when I sought to toss them into the hearth. Perhaps that is a wise choice; surely after this night, dark things will come to pass. There must be explanations left behind if—no, I dare not set such things in words, in stone. Let them remain mere premonitions, as insubstantial as mist.

Oh Orlando, will you forgive me? Have my whims caused the ruin of all of us? Were that I did not convince you to join me! Were that I had gone to Capulet’s great ball alone; obeying the invitation’s bidding and called no one else to accompany me! Were that you and Dominic had not met that poor servant and asked to read the list! Were that you had not seen Cate’s name! Yet all that have passed, I am left once more to mourn all that could not be. Time obeys no man’s wish to turn it back, but I wish so desperately for such a thing that I am willing to give my entire life for it. 

My dear friend, I have lied to you. I did not attend the party out of obligation to the Prince; I did it to see Sean amongst his family, with the desperate hope that if Lord Capulet knew how much we meant to each other, he will be tempted to extinguish this rivalry. I wished to see him by stronger light than the cold moon and stars, to be surrounded by others without the need to stow ourselves away as if our affection for each other was an abhorrent thing best left unwitnessed by the eyes of decency. I urged you on for I wished to introduce my friends to the one I love so, in hopes that you might look upon each other with different eyes. 

My wishes for this night were as numerous and brilliant as the stars in the night sky, but all they are now are all ashes beneath my feet. I have no more heart left to wish for a phoenix to be formed from them. I know it to be impossible. Orlando, my foolish, foolish friend! Of all the Mirandas in the world you could have loved, why choose the Capulets’? 

Sean raged so to see young Miranda in your arms; ever has he been protective of her, for though she knows him little, he has watched her as she grew, and loves her as a brother would a sister. This I know to be true, for he has told me, and though Sean has many faults, he is no liar. Were that he was less honest!

Could your eyes not be turned to any other beauty, my friend? There were so many who surrounded us! I am selfish to ask such a thing, for I know Love gives us no such choice. If I could choose, I would not have chosen Sean as the one with whom I found my soul’s mate. Ah, the cruelties of Love. Eros’s arrows rare lead us to happiness, for every drop of happiness Love gives, she extracts the price of an ocean’s worth of hurt and sorrow and suffering.

My friend, will you love me more if I tell you that I, like you, have given my heart into the hands of one of Capulet’s house? Will you even believe me if I even tell you such a thing? Sean cried my name with such rage when he recognised my form standing beside yours and Dominic’s amongst Capulet’s friends. Yet I did not fear; yet my anger did not rouse. His harsh fire had not been turned towards me for some days, and I found myself missing it. Oh, Orlando, will you think me mad if I say I have formed my selfhood within the various ways Sean’s lips formed around my name?

The shadows approach Verona. They draw closer and closer after this night. I find myself surprised as I look out of the window and still see the stars. Even the shadows cast by the candle’s flames seem large and overwhelming. Death has drawn his great cloak over us and now he awaits with his grey scythe for the first drop of blood to spill. I am afraid, though it is not the shadows I fear. I am terrified of how easily my hollowed chest reaches out for Death, and how effortlessly my soul welcomes him.

The night is cold and its chill wraps around me. I must seek warmth. Forgive me for stopping my quill now, my friend, and hope for me in any way you can that I will find Sean tonight. I must speak to him.

***

“That is the last letter,” Orlando said.

His hands opened without his consent, and the piece of thick parchment, darkened with Viggo’s words, floated down to the garden floor. He watched as Miranda picked it up; watched as she traced her finger over her cousin’s name, written by his lover days before they died by each other’s hands.

“How dark their hearts were! How the shadows touched their souls and refused to loosen their grasp!” cried Miranda, turning to face her husband. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Oh Orlando, have we doomed them by falling for each other? If we had not met at the ball, they might still be…”

“No,” Orlando said, the word bursting out of him. He leapt forward, snatching the last letter Viggo had ever written from Miranda’s grasp and dropping it on the bench. “No, don’t think about such things!”

There was more he should say, more words on the tip of his tongue to comfort his wife. Yet Orlando could not find them for his breath choked in his throat, and he drew Miranda into his arms and held her tightly. Was this how Viggo had held Sean, he wondered wildly. Was he always haunted by the knowledge that they would be torn apart at any moment, with each sweet embrace soured by heavy grief? 

He read their souls in the words Viggo had written, and yet he still did not know. Orlando was not a man made like Viggo was; he did not linger upon dark thoughts, preferring the comfort of hope, of gentleness, with riotous wishes of the hatred between their houses resolved through his and Miranda’s love for each other. Did love not conquer all? He knew the answer now was _no_ , not for Viggo and Sean, for they loved each other so dearly and yet the shadows still took them, and all the relief they knew was that of one cold blade that pierced both of their bodies.

Orlando closed his eyes. He saw the fragile peace of Verona spread out in front of him. Like dry kindling barely doused by a sudden wind it was, and he knew that the fires Viggo so feared would swallow the fair city once more if naught more was done to change kindling to heavy steel, never once more to be touched by fire.

“Oh, let Verona be changed into a city of light and joy,” whispered Miranda against his neck. “If not for our own sake, then for theirs; the city must be changed so this tragedy will never be repeated again. If a Montague falls for a Capulet, then so be it; let them be as happy as we were before death’s chill came so near.”

“Your eloquence is far more than mine!” declared Orlando, standing up immediately. “Yes, my love. Yes, that must be done. Come, let us find the Prince and your mother.”

“Why?” asked Miranda, looking up at her husband through tear-filled eyes. 

“They must not be buried separately,” said Orlando, and he wiped his face with his cuff. “They were parted unjustly in life, but let them be together in death, and sunder them never more.”

Miranda lowered her head. She gathered the letters slowly, sliding each back into their places before knotting the dark silk ribbon around the pile again.

“First, the Prince,” she said finally, unfolding herself to stand. “He will convince my mother and father, if none else can.” 

Orlando gave a small cry of joy and kissed her hard. Their hands tangled together as they headed north, towards the Prince’s house. The setting sun turned their dark hair into fire, but those were gentle flames indeed. 

***  
 _  
On the 27th of April, in the full bloom of spring, Viggo Mortensen, of the Prince’s House, friend of Montague, and Sean Bean, son of Brian, nephew of the Lady Capulet, were buried in the same coffin. Within Viggo’s cold hands were placed the letters he wrote telling of the great passion they shared. In their tomb, overlooking their bodies, hung Sean’s painting, the stark colours and the wild oceans they both loved guarding them._

 _Orlando and Miranda grieved for their friends who died to quench the fires of hatred between the two great houses of Verona, but they lived. Yes, they lived, and happily so until the end of their days._  
  
***

“Let us speak no longer of dark things,” said Sean as he pulled away. Viggo’s breath ghosted across his skin, and he shuddered as his fingers traced the bright white scar above Viggo’s mouth, peeking through the short hairs that appeared on men’s jaws at this time of the night. “I gave you this scar, did I not?”

“Aye, you did,” Viggo said, and there was warm mirth in his voice, honey born from the thoughts of a man who realised a past rage-filled memory had now turned sweet. “There was a ring on your finger as you swung your fist at my jaw, and it tore the skin.” He laughed. “I remember your shocked eyes as you watched blood flow past my skin to drip onto your shoes.”

“It was an ugly ring,” said Sean, shaking his head. He traced his thumb over it again. “I haven’t worn it since, for when I returned home there was rust red staining silver, and I could not look at it again.”

“So I have marked your ring,” whispered Viggo. Fingers brushed against Sean’s eyes, causing bright green to be veiled by heavy lids for but a moment before Viggo traced the small scar barely below the brow. “Just as I have marked you here.”

“The wound you gave me was far less grievous,” said Sean, and he laughed again. “I was frequently pleased with myself about that fact.” He looked at Viggo again as his fingers captured his hands, turning it over and pressing a gentle kiss upon the inside of the wrist.

The streetlamps shone a dim, sickly yellow light as Sean led Viggo from the depths of the alley to its mouth, where the light of the moon and stars could reach them easily. Viggo looked upwards to the stars, leaning against Sean’s shoulder as their arms grasped for each other, seeking for gentle warmth and rough skin.

“We have marked each other well,” Viggo said.

“Aye, we have. In manners that the light sees, and which it doesn’t,” Sean turned his head, his lips brushing against Viggo’s temple. Tiny little intimacies they have given each other each night, and Viggo’s brush ghosted over Sean’s neck, his lips’ warmth obvious above his collarbone. Viggo turned his eyes upwards, catching Sean’s gaze—made emerald-bright and gold-flecked by candles burning in the lamps—before he leaned forward.

They crashed together, suddenly caught up in the tide of desperation, of passion, of desire, of everything they barely dared to voice in fear that the shadows will swallow the words in the air and consume them both. They tried to consume each other instead, their mouths sliding against each other, hands clawing and tugging at shoulders. Like dancing on the edge of knives they kissed, right out in the open where any sleepless passersby would see them. Viggo pushed his advantage, pressing Sean against the wall, and pulling him closer, hand digging into long hair. Sean allowed him, his tongue licking over and over at the white scar above Viggo’s lip, as if his tongue could remake the mark into one on the soul and heart instead of merely the body.

Foreheads touched even as their lips parted, and hands caressed jaws, necks, each mirroring the other’s movements, their eyes fixed upon each other. Viggo laughed quietly, a soft, bitter sound, and Sean alighted two fingers against his lips, silencing him.

“Often I have turned my face to the sea,” said Sean, his voice a whisper almost too easily caught by the winds and scattered. “I looked upon endless sapphire and wished I have the courage to take a boat and escape this city. Now you make me glad I did not, because if I had I would not have this with you.”

“Your life would have been far simpler if you have not found this,” said Viggo, whose heart’s darkness was far more stubborn and less easy to dislodge than Sean’s. “Perhaps you might have found another, gentler love.”

Sean snorted. “I am not made for gentleness and neither are you,” he said wryly. “Any gentlewoman who finds me worthy would be burnt to ash by my temper within the week; I know that well. There is none other who can equal me as well as you, Viggo.”

“So this is a fated love,” said Viggo. There were words on his tongue, bitter ones bemoaning his fate, but he caught the sardonic humour in Sean’s eyes and shook his head instead. Why waste time lamenting what would never be, and why not grasp onto all that he could hold onto in the short time he knew he had left?

“Tell me of the sea,” he said instead. “Tell me what drove you to make that painting.”

“I will,” said Sean. “If you first inform me what you have done with it.”

“It sits in my sitting room,” said Viggo, and he burst out laughing at the sight of Sean’s widening eyes. “Yes, I placed it in my rooms where all who entered would see it! I allow only those who knew to make intelligent comments on the piece to come in.” He buried fingers into Sean’s hair, pulling him forward and he kissed him again, breathing in Sean’s disbelieving laughter and drawing the little sounds into his mouth.

“I thought you would’ve thrown it to the side once you found out the artist,” chuckled Sean. “Why, I had it that you threw it into the ocean!”

“I would never do such a thing!” cried Viggo. “’Tis an object dear to my heart for…” he hesitated, suddenly overcome by uneasiness, for with none he had ever discussed the manner at which his heart’s eyes viewed nature, and he didn’t wish to be laughed at. Yet he shook his head hard at the next moment, for had not Sean been courageous, and laid his heart out for Viggo to look at already?

“When I saw it, ‘twas like you have seated yourself behind my eyes, and drew what I saw and could never find the paints or words to capture,” said Viggo. “’Twill be easier to carve out my own heart than to be rid of it.”

There was a long moment of silence, as if the air itself had stilled to allow for unspoken words to travel between bodies by means of touch. Sean turned, fingers tracing Viggo’s jaw before he nudged for him to sit, and they dropped down onto the stone pavement, their backs against the brick wall as their eyes gazed upon the stars.

“I do not have friends like yours,” said Sean quietly. “My presence in Lord Capulet’s house has always been a tenuous one; my sister is my guardian, true, but she was oft busy with many duties to tend to. I do not fault her or Lord Capulet for my upbringing, however, for they gave me a strong education.” He glanced over to Viggo, smiling wryly. “Yet my truest friends have always been strays like myself—not boys, for there always is a gulf between us—but cats, dogs, and such.”

Viggo looked upon Sean, and knew he saw a man more lonely than himself. He wondered how he could have missed that Sean was almost always alone and rarely found with a servant or a page by his side.

“The sword is a cold companion,” Sean continued, “and I found my paints to be a better one. Nature gifted me her strays, and in her I saw great beauty. Yet within her I found another gulf between myself and my fellow man, for none saw her as I did,” his fingers traced over Viggo’s jaw, curling against the end of the strands. “None but you. Signor W— spent many days convincing me to put it up on exhibit, but I must spend many more in thanks for his efforts.”

Viggo tilted his head, lips grazing sword-callused palm. “My friends have been much comfort to me in my youth, but none have touched me the way you have.”

“Yet you have friends, and they sought your company,” retorted Sean. His anger was short-lived, however, and his eyes softened almost immediately. “Nay, I will not blame you for my bitter; ‘tis not your fault.”

“My loneliness was unlike yours, but it was loneliness nonetheless,” said Viggo, and once more he gave name to what lay thick and unspoken in their conversation. “I stood alone amongst the crowd, surrounded by glass none could see. I love, and yes, I was loved, yet I was not understood, for my attempts to expose my heart was met with uncomprehending eyes and blank faces.”

“Hush,” Sean said, and placed a hand over Viggo’s mouth. “Let us not linger longer in thoughts of emptiness. Have we not found each other?”

Viggo raised his hand and took Sean’s into his, tangling their fingers together. He looked into green eyes and wondered at how pleasingly the scar curved when Sean smiled. It was, he thought, a mark made in anger, but he did not regret carving it.

“Yes,” he said, and let Sean take his mouth and steal all words for the rest of the night. “We have.”

Who knew how much time they would have left?

_End_


End file.
